From Hell, With Love
by K M Rose
Summary: A series of mysterious, gruesome murders are taking place in Spitalfields. Can our Doctor and Detective solve them before they themselves become the targets? M for gore and possible situations later.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**—AHHHH! My first BBC Sherlock (or any Sherlock for that matter) fic ever!

Please leave me comments/reviews! They are so incredibly helpful to me!

**DISCLAIMER**: I don't own the main characters of this story, a few of them have been "created" and they are kind of mine…BUT! I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters therein.

**-the story-**

Dr. John Watson had long ago given up asking his flat mate why various body parts always seemed to find their way from the morgue and into their kitchen appliances. He stared mournfully into the fridge…empty—except for the hand. He closed the door with a sigh, he needed to do the shopping, and Sherlock Holmes needed a case; or at least a less gruesome hobby. A sit-down hobby; maybe they could learn to knit… No, Sherlock was one of those people who was always dashing about. He needed some kind of constant stimulation (mobiles, Wi-Fi, murders). Maybe Lestrade would call soon…

bvvvv-beep-bvvvv-bvvvv…beep-bvvvv…beep-bvvvv-beep… 

Speak of the devil; John heard Sherlock's mobile start the custom morse code ringtone (Y-A-R-D) signifying that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was calling. John slipped into the living room and sat down in his chair, as Sherlock answered the phone from the sofa.

"Yes?...Where?...Shortly." Sherlock ended the call and just continued to lie there, staring at the ceiling, in his dressing gown, t-shirt, and pyjama bottoms.

"Well?" John assumed that they had a case. It must have been somewhat urgent and complicated, or Lestrade wouldn't have called.

"Well, what?" Sherlock continued to look at the ceiling.

"That was Lestrade. I imagine he wanted our help on a case?"

"Yes."

"And we aren't in a hurry because?"

"Thinking"

John rolled his eyes, and went back in to the kitchen to busy himself with a cuppa.

Moments later Sherlock entered the kitchen, dressed in his normal garb, took the full mug out of John's hands, and drained it.

John, grumbling, asked "Are we going out then?"

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes and headed to the foyer to shrug on his coat.

"Where, then?"

"White Chapel, dear Doctor! A man seems to have gotten himself very badly cut." The smallest trace of a smile moved across Sherlock's face.

John shuddered as he grabbed his coat and followed Sherlock out of the door, yes, knitting would be a much nicer hobby.

* * *

"Sherlock! This man's head had been nearly cut off!" John looked down at the body. The throat had been slit several times. How many, John couldn't say.

"Yes, I did say that he was badly cut, John." Sherlock was crouched down with his magnifier looking at the ground around the body.

John let out an exasperated sigh and continued to examine the body. The man was in his late forties, moderately overweight, and balding—apart from his insanely large blonde wig which was lying about two feet away. He was wearing a green sequined dress paired with matching green pumps. His face was made up extravagantly— shades of blue coated his eyelids, and his lips were smeared with a ghastly shade of pink. John could make out that he had been strangled prior to the partial decapitation, due to the dark blue and purple blotches beyond the reddish brown of the blood on his neck.

"Who was this man? Do we know?" He looked up to Lestrade.

"John Chapman, 48. A resident of the area, he lived in that block there. Must have been heading home after a night out." Lestrade shook his head, possibly to understand why the man was dead…more likely to understand why someone would dress up in such a way.

Sherlock suddenly stood up and walked farther into the alleyway, and started rummaging around the skips and bins.

John shook his head and stood to face Lestrade. "Why are we here? You don't usually call unless something about a case is off. What's strange about this one?"

"Well, this is the second body we have found like this."

"Decapitated? Or a transvestite?" Sherlock called from behind one of the skips.

"Erm… Well… Both."

John raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Lestrade went on to tell the doctor about Bill Nichols, how he also had neck wounds, was also a noted transvestite, and also found in a similar alley about a month ago. "We believe they are linked."

"Of course they are linked!" Sherlock returned from the skips holding what appeared to be a doctor's bag, with what looked to be a St. Bartholomew's Hospital insignia on it. "John, what do you think of all of this?"

"The bag?"

"Don't worry about the bag for now…Think about this whole thing. Any of it seem familiar to you?" The detective opened the case and began taking out its contents.

"I'm not sure what I am supposed to be noticing here, Sherlock"

"Oh, come on! Really think! Nichols, Chapman… lacerations… White Chapel?"

"Good God! The Ripper! D'you really think that someone is trying to replicate those murders?"

"Quite. Gentlemen… what seems to be missing?"

Sherlock had placed the contents of the bag out onto the pavement: stethoscope, syringes of varying sizes, a few bottles of medicines, and various scalpels and forceps.

John looked a little closer at the items on the ground. Then he noticed, "The number twenty scalpel… It's a pretty standard blade, used for general surgery."

"Ok, so?" Lestrade shook his head; he didn't understand what any of this meant. Neither medical science nor transgender-ism were his division.

"The murder weapon is the missing scalpel, Inspector Lestrade. The murderer is either a doctor or a med student from Bart's." Sherlock put the items back inside and handed it to Lestrade. "There isn't much more we can do for you until we have more to go on. If these murders are going to turn out like the original murders that they are replicating, then we won't ever have much more than this. Take this bag to Evidence. Tell Anderson, straight from me… if he so much as breathes on it I'll know, and I'll make his life quite considerably more unbearable than it already is."

Lestrade just nodded and took the bag, gesturing to his team to start removing the body and combing for more evidence.

"Home, John." With that Sherlock stalked out of the alley and towards the main road, hailing a cab, and John followed shaking his head at gruesome nature of the events that were bound to occur within the next several months.

**End.**

**A/N-** Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think! This story had been buzzing around my head… and was keeping me from working on any of my other stories. :) Hope you liked it!

-K M Rose


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**—

Please leave me comments/reviews! They are so incredibly helpful to me!

**DISCLAIMER**: I don't own the main characters of this story, a few of them have been "created" and they are kind of mine…BUT! I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters therein.

**-the story-**

Three more victims were murdered over the course of the following months. Tom Stride, James Eddowes, and Mike Kelly. Mike's death was the worst of them all.

"Where's Watson?" Lestrade met Sherlock at the street and began leading him up to a 10th floor flat where Mike lived.

"John is out, keeping Mrs. Hudson company down at the shops."

"Ah, well here we are. Donovan, could you please take Mrs. Kelly out?" Lestrade escorted Sherlock into the flat.

The detective knew immediately upon stepping into the flat that Mike still lived with his mother, the devastated woman sitting in an armchair near the door. Graying hair – late fifties. Pinafore – housewife. Wedding rings on necklace – widow; 7? 8. years ago; Iraq. Hands; red and calloused – taken up housekeeping and laundry. Mike must have been the youngest of her three children, the way she was carrying on. This was making him feel terrible, yet he was also morbidly curious as to why the killer would deviate from leaving the bodies in alleyways. He must have more facts. "I have a few questions for Mrs. Kelly before she leaves."

"Not now, Freak. Not a good time." Sgt. Donovan took Mrs. Kelly by the arm and led her out of the flat and into the corridor.

Confusion swept over Sherlock. Why wasn't this a good time? It's always a good time for questions. What is different?!

"This way." Lestrade walked toward the back of the flat, opened a door and walked in.

Sherlock didn't have to look to know that there was more damage done to this body than any of the others. He could smell it. It was as if someone had stuffed a handful of pennies into his nostrils. Ignoring the mask that Lestrade was handing him, he stepped in to the room and looked. The curtains to the window were drawn closed. Posters of bands littered the walls (The Stones, Belle & Sebastian, DriveShaft, etc…); clothes were strewn about; a school uniform was hanging off the back of a chair.

It all made sense now. Mike Kelly was just a kid. He was 14? 15? years old. The rest of the victims had been in their late forties/early fifties. How did this kid get mixed up in this? He didn't know yet, but it was time to look at the body. And God help him if he was starting to develop emotions. This really wasn't the ideal time…

**((((( DESCRIPTION OF BODY! READ WITH CAUTION! )))))**

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The body of Mike Kelly was on the bed. The torso had been severed, and the lower half had been placed facing downwards; the genitalia towards the mattress. A laceration had been made to the face from the right ear the left; the temporomandibular joints had been broken, causing the jaw to fall open at a gangly and unpleasant angle. The tongue seemed to have been removed and placed in the anus.

His face seemed to be swollen indicating that he had been beaten prior to death, another indication was that he had a broken nose and two black eyes. His arms and legs had been stripped of their skin and in some areas muscle had been scrapped off of the bone.

His chest was scattered with bite marks, and there was a message carved into his pectorals: "From Hell, with Love." Blood had saturated all of the bed clothes and most certainly the mattress.

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**(((((CARRY ON)))))**

"His mother was the one who found him. This morning, when he hadn't gotten up for breakfast. Terrible thing this, yeah?" Lestrade stood next to Sherlock as the detective looked at the body.

Sherlock answered with a noncommittal grunt. He turned away from the body, and looked at the desk. Cluttered with school books, half written assignments, and cigarette cartons. It reminded him of his own school desk, and even the flat that he lived in now. Messy, chaotic, and full of nicotine. "Have you found anything? Women's clothing?"

"No, nothing like that. We did find a series of shoe boxes containing an ungodly number of condoms, lubricant packets, and a varying array of toys. There were also three fake ID's.

"So, not a transvestite." Sherlock turned to look at Mike's body. "This message, Lestrade. What do you make of it?"

Lestrade shrugged, "Dunno, might be a reference to the Ripper Letter. You know, 'Dear sir, here is this kidney. You can't catch me.'

"Maybe. This all just doesn't make any sense. This one is so much more different than the other four. The only one to have a note, the only one to be killed in a home, the only one that wasn't a transvestite, and the only one to be under the age of 40. I really must talk to his mother, Mrs. Kelly. Have this body, and the others sent to Bart's. I must examine them all together to see if there are any connections."

Sherlock left the room, and Lestrade called in his men to remove the body and start the clean-up, "Poor boy…"

* * *

"He was a good boy, wasn't ever a harm to anybody." Mrs. Jane Kelly, held a handkerchief to her lips, trying to ward off sobs. "He was talented; violin. Spent every penny I had when he was younger to get him lessons. Paid off too, he got a scholarship to Eton. He was going to transfer in September."

"Sherlock went to Eton, plays violin too." John said pointing at the detective. He had finished the shopping earlier, and had met up with Sherlock back at the flat to help talk to Mike's mother. "I went to Kennet, played the clarinet, not very well I'm afraid."

"Mikey loved music. He wanted to become a teacher." Mrs. Kelly let John pat her hand.

"Mrs. Kelly, what do you know of your son's sexual habits?" Sherlock wanted to cut to the chase. He needed to know if she knew anything. His deductions depended on it.

"Well, ever since his father passed away in Iraq, rest his soul, Mikey was a bit dark and introverted. Never seemed to be interested in girls…or boys…or anyone for that matter. So, I'm not sure if he even had any sexual habits. Though if he had been interested in boys I wouldn't have minded. He was my son after all." She clutched her necklace and dabbed at her eyes.

Sherlock put one of the boxes that they had found in Mike's room onto the table. "What do you make of this?"

"What is all of this?" She eyed the box, a bit warily.

"This box was discovered in your son's room, his closet to be exact. Three more were found, under his bed, in a false bottomed drawer in his desk, and in behind an air vent cover in his bathroom. In it, we found these items…" He took some of them out. "Fake IDs, condoms, lube… Were you aware that he had any of this?"

Mrs. Kelly gasped, "No! I wasn't! Oh dear! Well, the condoms I knew about. Bought some of those for him myself when he turned fourteen. But fake IDs?! Goodness no! I knew he had gone out dancing with some of his schoolmates, but to think! He'd been sneaking about into clubs! Oh dear Lord! Who knows what kinds of strange people he met! God in Heaven!"

"It seems that Mike hadn't only been sneaking out, but had been having relations with a few of those strange people also. Tell me, Mrs, Kelly, what is it that you do in the evenings? After you've done all of the housework for the four, no, five families that you work for? Especially on week-ends?" How could Mike have been so viciously murdered and his mother not know?

"Well, my own mother is still living, but she is terribly crippled and demented. I hired a nurse for her during the day, but I go over in the evenings and week-ends to check up and take care of her. Over the past three months Mum has gotten worse, and Mikey has been living basically on—Oh Lord…This is my fault! If I had paid for the nurse to stay evenings, I would have been home! Mikey would have never been—" Mrs. Kelly fell into a fit of wracking sobs and wails.

John stood and crossed over to the crying woman, patting her on the back, and letting her cry into his jumper

Sherlock just sat there, a burning, empty feeling spreading its way through his body.

End.

**A/N- **And here is the end of the second chapter! Please, please, please! Leave your comments! Thanks!

-K M Rose


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